


Seven Deadly Sins  Redux

by iriswallpaper



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blackmail, Eating Disorders, F/M, Gluttony, Jealous Mycroft, Light BDSM, M/M, Past Infidelity, Pride, Unrequited Lust, envy - Freeform, greed - Freeform, sloth - Freeform, wrath - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-26 07:25:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2643251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iriswallpaper/pseuds/iriswallpaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven stories with a new take on the Seven Deadly Sins. Each story describes how one of the Sherlock characters either tames or is consumed by one of the deadly sins.</p><p>Chapter 1 - GLUTTONY</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. GLUTTONY

The day he met John Watson, Sherlock Holmes told him he didn't eat while on a case. That was true – but not the whole truth. He also didn't eat when he wasn't on a case. He didn't eat when he was busy, he didn't eat when he was bored. Mostly he tried not to eat at all. Sherlock actually took pleasure from going to great lengths to not eat. 

He discovered the joy of hunger quite by accident as a teen. He’d been wrapped up in a lengthy experiment, tied to his microscope and samples for hours on end. When he finally wrote his last note in the lab notebook he blinked, realizing it had been 72 hours since he’d slept or eaten – and he felt more alive than he’d ever felt in his life. He was ravenous and exhausted. Too exhausted to eat, he’d fallen immediately into a near-coma sleep lasting close to 24 hours. He awoke in a state beyond hunger that was absolutely exquisite.

He decided to find out when hunger turned from an exquisite ache to real pain. It happened on the 10th day. His hunger turned from a warm companion to a devouring demon on the evening of day 10. He doubled over, vomiting water and stomach acid, too wretched to even stand. He’d crawled to his kitchen, grabbing weakly at the first thing his hands touched – a loaf of bread, days old and stale. He curled on the floor, devouring a slice, immediately retched it up. He eventually found that small bites alternated with sips of water calmed the demon in his stomach, allowing him to hold on to the meager snack.

Since that day he’d practiced his secret pleasure discretely. He was a master at appearing to eat while actually disposing of the food off his plate. He took no pleasure in dehydration. He kept himself well hydrated with water, coffee, tea, beers and wines. He could sit through a five course meal, chatting and appearing to eat every course, while really only drinking the accompanying wines and water.

Sherlock lay awake most nights reveling in the exquisite pleasure of feeling his body devour itself. He found that the fourth day of a complete fast was the best. He could feel his metabolism switch from burning his meager fat stores to fueling itself on his muscle, his sinew. The feelings inside his body were more erotic than any sexual pleasure he’d shared with any woman – or man. The high of self-control, self denial, coupled with the physical ache of emptiness in his entire body sometimes kept him awake for nights on end. That high was nearly as good as heroin or coke. And if he could combine sex with fourth-day hunger – ah, those were the best times for him, and for John.

Sherlock knew Mycroft suspected. He’d seen his brother arch an eyebrow at his plate a more than one dinner. But he’d never actually caught Sherlock in the act of secreting away bites into his sleeve, napkin or pocket while appearing to eat. The thought of pulling something over on his brother was nearly as much a high as the actual hunger.

Sherlock took secret pleasure from John’s constant nagging at him to eat. Devoted, loving John, constantly making sandwiches, pasta and endless pots of tea. Sherlock appreciated the tea and the morning coffee. He actually appreciated the breakfasts, too, usually eating the eggs and toast every four or five days. The other days he either flatly refused the offered food or, when he wanted to please John, secreted it away to dispose of later. Sherlock did wish John didn't have such a hang-up with food. He’d love for John to share the pleasure of hunger-sex. Sherlock didn't even try to explain it. John would never understand.

And at night in bed when John remarked on his lovely slim hips or his slender, elegant hands, the pleasure of John’s adoration mingled with the hunger-pleasure to truly drive him wild. John once marveled to Sherlock that his lover was such a screamer (John actually loved it). Sherlock’s reply was only a lop-sided grin while he thought; sometimes the only way to let out all these mingled pleasures was in the ultimate pleasure of a scream.


	2. SLOTH

John loved, literally loved, when Sherlock rhapsodized about his hard, trim body. Nothing could excite him in bed more than Sherlock’s descriptions of his hard stomach, his firm chest or his rock-hard thighs. To Sherlock, the firmness and hardness seemed a constant. What he didn't know was the endless hours his lover put in at the gym to keep the physique Sherlock so desired.

John hadn't exactly hidden it from Sherlock - not at the beginning. It was more than he didn't want his flatmate to think he was a muscle-head. Sherlock seemed to disdain most things physical so John assumed he’d scoff at John’s gym time, maybe even consider it vanity. John had just never mentioned it. 

It was so easy to hide it from the brilliant detective. He never gave Sherlock his exact schedule at the clinic. Besides, it varied from week to week. It was easy to slip off two hours early or stop in for an hour on the way home. He kept his gym clothes in a locker there along with a laundry bag. When the bag was full he took it in to the clinic and dumped it into the clinic’s washer, transferring it to the dryer during a break between patients, then back into the bag. He kept his basketball and running trainers in his locker, too. John stopped on his way to the gym to buy new pairs as the old wore out from hours of training, disposing of the old ones at the gym.

He carefully bought duplicates of all his grooming products, too, so that he arrived home smelling the same as he’d left. Damn that Sherlock, he had a nose like a bloodhound. If he ever found out about John’s hours at the gym it would be because of the way John smelled.

It was easy to play off any soreness from over-lifting or over-running as his shoulder or leg injuries acting up. Sherlock had no idea how many of John’s sore days were from squatting 90 kilograms or running 10 km. Because John had come into their relationship battle scared, the detective assumed his occasional groans came from those scars. John grinned when he thought of pulling that over on Sherlock’s brilliant mind.

John was pretty sure Mycroft knew. Mycroft knew everything and had ways to find out anything he didn't. He didn't know why Mycroft kept quiet but was glad he did. The bastard was probably holding onto the information to use as leverage against John some day. Oh well, so be it, as long as Mycroft didn't spill the beans to his little brother.

John actually worried about the age difference between he and Sherlock - about keeping up with his younger lover. He seemed to be aging more quickly while Sherlock never changed. He worried about losing Sherlock’s adoration some day. Sherlock seemed to stay slim without effort, and John worried that the younger man would be repulsed by any softening in his physique. That pushed him to work his body to exhaustion.


	3. ENVY

Mycroft sits alone in his garden. The perfect beds of prize-winning roses are meticulously maintained by both Mycroft and his horticulture- degreed gardener. Behind him rises his perfectly proportioned townhome, furnished with exquisite taste by only the best decorators. He sits on a wrought-metal garden bench that cost more than most Londoners made in six months. He sips single malt, only the best in his liquor cabinet. 

He sighs, seemingly content. But the sigh isn’t one of contentment – it’s one of utter, bitter envy. He is so blindly jealous of his younger brother that it’s driving him insane. He doesn’t understand the sudden white-hot envy that takes over his mind every time it strays to Sherlock.

Why in heaven’s name should he be jealous of his nearly-broke, half mad, junkie brother? His brother who lives in a dump only that should be condemned. His brother who rarely eats – oh, Mycroft knows about Sherlock’s self-starvation techniques. Actually considers it quite funny. As long as Sherlock doesn’t carry it too far and end up in hospital then Mycroft sees no reason to intervene. His brother, who lives on coffee, cigarettes and adrenaline.

His brother the sociopath who alienates every person, male or female, who comes into his orbit. All but one! And there lies the bitter envy eating at Mycroft’s soul. John Watson. Sherlock has John Watson, fast friend, constant companion, partner and lover.  
John, whose smile lights up rooms, whose capable hands save people from their own stupidity, who makes tea and sandwiches that his brother promptly pockets bite by bite (Mycroft knows all of Sherlock’s food-avoiding tricks). John, who meets up with mates to watch football in corner pubs, who listens patiently to Mrs. Hudson’s endless prattle, who soothes over the chaos Sherlock leaves in his wake. John, who is patiently taming his brother into a semblance of a socialized adult. John, everyone’s friend and Sherlock’s rock.

Mycroft sighs again, deciding to put thoughts of his fucking brother out of mind. He has to control this jealousy before it devours him. Besides, wasn’t Mycroft the man with it all? All, that is, except the one thing that matters most.


	4. PRIDE

Greg Lestrade dragged his hand over his handsome, gaunt face. He was tired. Tired of murders, tired of police work. Tired of playing the role of bumbling Detective Inspector, barely able to solve the simplest of cases. But he was mostly tired of Sherlock Fucking Holmes.

He knew his staff liked him but didn't exactly respect him. He loved them like family but damnation, he was tired of the looks from Donavan and Anderson. Both thought they were far smarter, far superior to him. Both thought they deserved the DI job more than he did.

And they did as he currently played it off. It was hard for him to keep up the act. He was a very, very intelligent man. It cut him to see the glances pass between Donavan, Anderson and the uniformed staff when he failed to act it. The glances started when he called in Sherlock Fucking Holmes. Lately it was nearly every week he called in the Consulting Detective. He didn't need him – he could solve even the most difficult of cases on his own. He saw everything, deduced most details long before Sherlock Fucking Holmes could start spouting his drivel.

So why did he continue the act? Why did he endure the pointed looks from his staff, the sniggers behind the uniform’s hands? Because Mycroft. Mycroft Fucking Holmes, who had Greg’s balls against the wall.

Mycroft – who knew everything. Mycroft, buttoned up bureaucrat. Mycroft Fucking Holmes, who IS the British Government. Mycroft, who let Greg know through not-so-subtle hints that he knew the DI was having an affair with his daughter’s piano teacher. And had had an affair with his other daughter’s field hockey coach. And then there was the short affair with the pediatrician’s receptionist. And don’t forget the fling with the woman who tends the garden. Mycroft certainly won’t let him forget it.

All Mycroft asked in return for his silence was that Greg help keep his half-mad little brother busy. When his brother is busy, it frees up Mycroft’s attention for other things. And God knew, Greg would do anything to keep Mycroft’s attention off himself. Even play the idiot in front of his staff, risking his chances of promotion. Anything…anything to make sure Mycroft Fucking Holmes kept a wide berth from his wife.


	5. GREED

Mrs. Hudson was known in the neighborhood as one of the most kind, generous people ever. She carried extra notes in her wallet to give to the homeless. She often bought take out cups of tea on cold days, just to give to poor wretches who looked cold. She dropped cake to every young couple when a new baby arrived, whether it was their first baby or their sixth. 

She never forgot a birthday, sending cards to every person she knew. She remembered her primary school friends with Christmas cards even if it was the only contact she kept with them. She knitted warm scarves for her boys upstairs and didn't feel hurt at how rarely she saw them worn.

Even though she was only a Christmas-and-Easter Anglican, she supported all the charity work of her local congregation. She donated deserts for church dinners. She knitted blankets for the crack baby ministry. She delivered a turkey to the vicar at Christmas. She even went in weekly and dusted the altar, checking to make sure the candles were properly trimmed.

Mrs. Hudson was called many things by her friends and neighbors: saint, sweetheart, gullible, pillar of the community. If they only knew, she thought. If they only knew.

You see, Mrs. Hudson was actually a billionaire. Her drug-lord husband had set up numbered Swiss bank accounts for his ill-gotten funds. The late Mr. Hudson never realized his wife had a photographic memory and she never saw a reason to enlighten him. It only took a glance for her to remember the bank account numbers, the passwords and all security information she needed for access.

Mr. Hudson never suspected. She never let on to him while he was alive that she knew about the money. The lived lavishly in Miami, Florida. She enjoyed the fast life, the nightclubs, the sex and even the drugs to a small degree. She tried to stay as far removed from her husband’s drug dealings as possible but secretly knew what was going on. She took steps to ensure they never had children. It was one thing for two consenting adults to live the fast life, but quite another to bring children into it.

Then, just as she was tiring of it all and well over Mr. Hudson, Providence smiled on her. Her husband, along with his drug lieutenants, were stupid enough to stumble into a raid. All were carted off to jail to await trial. She spent several sleepless nights worrying that her simple-minded act wouldn’t cover up her involvement. Then Providence smiled again in the form of a young, intense detective named Sherlock. 

Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, was able to prove to the American ATF and FBI that her husband was actually more than just a drug dealer. He provided Mr. Hudson’s involvement in a double murder, sending him to Death Row. His deductions also helped convict the lieutenants, all while managing to clear Mrs. Hudson’s name.

To all the world it looked as if Mrs. Hudson returned from America with just enough money to buy a town home in a posh neighborhood. Her sister and friends declared it a good investment, giving her the potential of a retirement income by renting out the second floor flat. Mrs. Hudson smiled, secretly paying cash for her new home with her first withdrawal from the Swiss accounts. 

She breathed a sigh of relief when no American or British intelligence agents came calling at Baker Street. She realized she couldn't live as lavishly as the balances in the accounts would allow. After all the years of fast living, she didn’t even want that any more. When Sherlock called one day to inquire about the flat she was happy to give it to him for a song. The rent was enough to explain her comfortable living to her sister and friends but low enough to allow her favorite Consulting Detective to live just upstairs.

She’d love to lavish “her boys” with gifts, and that sweet young Molly. She’d love to buy that nice DI Lestrade a well-cut suit to show off his attractive figure. There’s so much she’d like to do with all that money. But she knows that acting on her desires would draw attention to the numbered Swiss accounts, so she contents herself with cake baking and blanket knitting. 

Once a year she takes her sister on holiday. They go to a Swiss mountain spa during the off-season. They enjoy seaweed wraps, mud baths and deep massages. And one afternoon each holiday she leaves her sister in the spa to take a quick trip to Zurich. She always takes an empty carry-on bag with her to bring back stuffed with 100 pound notes and 500 Euro notes. She has a secret safe under the stairs at Baker Street – quite a large safe – currently stuffed with currency.

Her will specifies her town home will go to her boys upstairs upon her death. She counts on her Consulting Detective to find the hidden panel and the stuffed safe behind it. The thought of her boys being financially independent at Baker Street for the rest of their lives gave her a warm, contented glow. 

And the rest of the money? Who know what happens to numbered Swiss accounts when their owner’s gone?


	6. WRATH

Sweet, gentle Molly. Everyone called her that. She hated them for it. Little did they know how hate consumed her. Oh, she should win awards for her acting. Always acting the sweet, docile girl. Everyone’s best friend. The one to call for a shoulder to cry on. Call gentle, good Molly when you need help. Steadfast, dependable Molly.

The fuckers had no idea how cruel sweet little Molly was underneath the act. She laughed to herself, wishing she could get them under her heel, crush the idiot smiles off their faces. 

Her hands itched to grab Sherlock’s riding crop and flay his stupid fucking cheekbones. Brilliant detective who thought he had her figured out. Well, the joke’s on him. He had no idea of her dark, dirty heart. She could ruin that handsome face with five licks of the riding crop. He’d scream like a schoolgirl under her blows. The mental picture puts a glow on her cheeks when she sees him.

And gentle, harmless John. She’d like to truss him up like a pig and whip the stupid grin off his face. She can picture how his bare ass would look with red welts across it. The image makes her giggle. How shocked gentle John would be! He certainly didn’t seem to be the BDSM type. But oh, she could teach him. She’d love to stomp his balls under her sharpest boot heels.

And oh, what she’d like to do to Mike Stamford! The idiot discredited everyone who held a medical degree. She’d worked damned hard to earn her credentials then along comes that buffoon, slouching like an orangutan into her lab and morgue, acting as if he owned the place. Talking down to poor, sweet Molly. Gentle Molly who’d do anything to get folks to like her. Well, fuck him. She could slap that idiot grin off his face in five seconds. She’d like to go at him with her largest stainless steel butt plug - hear him scream like the pig he is when she shoves it in with no prep. Her eyes sparkle at the thought.

And here comes the great detective now! “Ah, Molly, how lovely you look today” he says as he breezes in, his pretentious coat tails flapping. Molly just gives him a meek smile. Fucking idiot, she thinks. Try deducing the things I’d do to wipe that fake smile off your stupid face.


	7. LUST

Sally wants him. She lusts him. She wants to devour him, possess him, fuck his body and capture his soul. But he will never, know. He looks right through her – always has. The first time she laid eyes on him she was seized with utter lust for him, but he barely shook her hand. He’d not even glanced at her since. 

Sally knew she was a beautiful woman. Men made passes at her every day. She’d fucked her way through most of the Yard. Any man she wanted, she could have. Women, too. Women found her café au lat skin, natural curls irritable, sparkling white teeth and sensuous lips irresistible. Rarely a week went by that a lesbian didn’t proposition her. But the most Sally had ever done was make out with a particularly striking, tall, dark-haired, pale lesbian at a party once. Hadn’t done a thing for her. Her cheeks colored when she thought about the incident.

She invariably chose tall, thin, pale men with raven hair to hook up with at clubs. She knew how to put the moves on men – knew they couldn’t resist her when she put her game on. She’d assess the club for any man that fit her type and waste no time zeroing in on him. After he bought her a few drinks she invited him back to her flat. She never held back and never left a man wanting. She unleashed her lust for one certain tall, pale raven-haired man onto whatever man shared her bed for the night. 

They always called, pestering her for weeks. She’d disabled the voicemail on her mobile, irritated at the constant messages. Then the men started texting. It was easier, somehow, to just delete the texts without replying.

None of it mattered. None of the men were the right man, the one she lusted after, the one she could never have. And because of that she hated him – or at least acted like she did. She called him a freak, used her most cutting tones when she talked to him. She never missed an opportunity to take a dig at him, discredit him in any way. The heartless bastard didn’t even care. She was nothing to him. To hurt him the way his indifference hurt her, he’d have to care a little first. And that hurt almost as much as the ache of lust every time she thought of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may do an alternate LUST chapter with Johnlock smut... still thinking about it.

**Author's Note:**

> This is only my third attempt at fan fic. I really appreciate your feedback, both positive and constructive. TIA!


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